it doesn’t count if it’s a girl

“It doesn’t count if it’s a girl.”  The words ran through her mind like the silk sheets on her skin.  

On her fifteenth birthday, she’d snuck a bottle of rum from her parent’s alcohol cabinet.  Of course her parents left the cabinet in easy reach.  At barbecues, they even allowed her to add a bit to her Coke to “see how it felt.”  This time they liberally poured the liquid down their throats.  She’d choked on the burn, along with her best friend, because she’d heard it made girls more…something.  She wasn’t sure what, she only knew that she wanted to make her best friend loose and fun and…her friend swallowed the drink in one gulp.  They’d laughed and talked about stupid things— and then all of a sudden she got giddy and giggly and her friend’s hair shone golden bright and she moved her mouth against her friend’s lips.  But Emma had never told anyone about it, because it was just her best friend. Just girls being dumb.

Seven years later, she lies on thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets.  She isn’t that gangly fifteen year old anymore.  Why is she even thinking of her old high school friend.  They haven’t talked in years. 

Because you still feel the same, stupid young girl.  But she’s an adult now and she should take ownership of her feelings. How hard is it to be honest with, well, at least the guy who loves her.

He won’t understand.  He thinks you’re the good girl he dated in high school, the good girl he got engaged to a year ago.  He’d made fun of finding her 50 Shades of Gray book to the point where she’d lied and said a friend had asked her to put it in her bag to hold, and she’d just forgotten to give it back.  Imagine the kind of hard time he’d give you if you admitted you wanted that kind of kinkfuckery.

She exhales in yesterday’s memory.  She skims her properly manicured fingers across her breasts, down between them to her stomach.  Her fingernails drag a pretty pink line down the middle of her body, she wishes she had the courage to draw blood, like she’s seen in pictures.  She shifts her body and is disappointed to find no marks or bruises.  As if it never happened.

Think about last night, she repeats to herself.  Think of all the sensations as that woman took your hand and led you to the bedroom.  Her friends, drunk on the party, her last night of freedom, they told her to have fun, that she’d forget about it by the next morning— they encouraged her to make this terrible mistake.  

But it doesn’t feel like a mistake.  And she didn’t forget when she woke up.

Fuck it, she says out loud.  Fuck everything and enjoy what you did. 

She shoves everything out of her mind but the beautiful woman with the impossible wine dark hair that tumbled around her waist.   Recall the way her body weaved like a cobra, a slow rolling, enthralling dance, and her sea colored eyes pierced her skin.  Remember her weight pressed down below her stomach.  She’d self consciously hid her belly with her hands, and the beautiful woman pushed them away.  “Your stomach is a curve.  It’s beautiful.”  The way she kissed, so soft compared to Chris’, her tongue tasting every bit of salt and skin and wetness.

It was just sex, Emma’s mind recoils.  It didn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything.  It was just sex. 

But she can’t stop thinking about how she FELT.  She can’t forget the woman’s sly, mischievous grin.  Her fingers, coaxing pleasure from Emma’s skin.  She can’t forget their bodies wrapped and clinging to each other.

She opens her eye and her vision skitters around the bedroom.  He must be home soon.  What time is it?  Did she delete the texts?  She must have done so, how stupid could she be to not destroy the evidence (those sweet words, if she deletes them do the thoughts disappear)?  

She doesn’t even want him to come home, because what the fuck is she going to say?  That she didn’t know better?  Yeah, blame your upbringing or some other bullshit.  Play the idiot.  Who doesn’t want to marry some stupid idiot with no accountability for herself?

The truth is she did know.  The truth is she wanted that woman, but why?  The truth is she doesn’t feel an iota of guilt, but she should, right?  Why does she only feel anger when thinking about this?  Why are the only words that go through her mind in response, I will have a goddess in my bed if I fucking want it.  Selfish.  Is that what she is going to tell him?

She waits in silence, for several minutes?  Hours?

Below, a door slams closed (he didn’t slam it, she reminds herself, it’s the stupid door that needs to be fixed), but she hears anger in the blow.  “Uh, Emma, are you home?”

She curls up in a motion of self defense and pretends she’s fallen asleep.  Just go away.  Just, please, go away.

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